


You're Eighteen, and Running Out of Time

by Blissymbolics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, First Kiss, Growing Up, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Smoking, summer 1994
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: He tries to think of something else to say. The clock is ticking. Eddie’s mom said she’d give him fifteen minutes to pack up the rest of his clothes, and according to Richie's watch, they only have two minutes left. Fuck, why couldn’t they have a bit more time? Of course Richie knows that Eddie can get on a bus and come back to Derry any time he wants, but still, for some reason, it feels like he’s leaving forever.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samansucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/gifts).



> I debated leaving the first chapter as a one-shot, but the rest of it was just too clear. Although I'm ultimately too weak to give it a hard canon ending

Richie is lying on Eddie’s bare mattress, fiddling with a snow globe from Niagara Falls, twirling it between his fingers and watching the glitter and snow cascade over the plastic rocks before flipping it over and watching it drift right back up again. There’s a cardboard box full of various junk sitting beside him on the floor. Various knickknacks and unused school supplies, some old clothes and random things that Eddie probably got as Christmas presents from distant relatives who thought he was five years younger.

He and Eddie already sorted through the true junk: the stuff that no one would buy even for a nickel. Cereal box toys, dry pens, and glow-in-the-dark stars that lost their juice a decade ago. They threw all that away, and the halfway decent stuff is in the box on the floor, which Richie’s bringing home with him so his parents can put it out at their next garage sale. All the weird little objects that Eddie unintentionally amassed over the years that sat in various corners of his room collecting dust. Things he never used or touched. Just background noise.

“So what’s the plan after getting to Bangor?” Richie asks, flipping the globe again.

Eddie is standing by the closet and stuffing the last of his clothes into a blue duffle bag; the stuff he wears all the time and needed to save till the very end.

“Don’t know. Guess we’ll unpack and figure it out from there.”

“How big is your room?”

Eddie scoffs. “It’s so small my bed will probably stick out the door. But whatever. It’s just for two months.”

Eddie tosses some more shirts into the bag, not bothering to fold them. Guess there’s no point when he’ll be unpacking them in an hour anyway.

Richie gives the snow globe one final twirl before placing it back in the box on the floor.

Two months. That’s how long Eddie will be staying with his mom in Bangor before heading down to Waterville to start his first semester at Colby. At least it’s only a two-hour bus ride from Derry, so Richie can go down and visit him whenever he wants and absorb the college experience vicariously.

His parents were pissed when he decided to take a gap year, but even they had to admit that going to college was pointless when he had no idea what the fuck he wanted to do. They still gave it their best effort. Last fall his dad ordered him all the brochures and laid them out on the kitchen table like a fortuneteller doing a reading, pointing at each glossy picture of a quad or a tower and explaining its meaning:

_Dave’s son really likes the bio program at Rochester._

_James went to Middlebury and said they’ve got a great outdoor program._

_Melissa used to work at Fort Kent and said they give great aid._

And Richie nodded and said he’d think about it. And he kept saying that until the application deadlines had expired.

Now he’s stuck here. Well, not stuck stuck. He can drive, and he’s been saving up for a used car. He could invest in one of the ten-year models gathering rust on Chris’s lot and spend the summer driving back and forth across the country until he gets sick of it. Get it all out of his system, deromanticize the freeway, and maybe by autumn he’ll have some motivation to start looking at those brochures again.

Another big reason for the delay is he wanted to see where everyone else would end up. It’d suck to get accepted to some great school only to find out that he’d be ten states away from his closest friend, but it looks like that won’t be an issue since everyone seems to be hovering around the northeast.

Ben’s going down to study architecture at Cornell; Bev’s doing an apprenticeship in New York; Bill’s going to Bowdoin and Stan’s headed to BU; Mike’s sticking around Derry for the time being, and Richie supposes he is too. They were all in easy driving distance of one another, definitely close enough to come back home for the summers. If Richie does end up on the degree track, he’ll probably try to find a school in the area too. Some place that caters to his very specific hobbies of psychoanalyzing movies and getting weirdly obsessed with the history of pinball machines. If push comes to shove, he’ll probably wind up going to a state school to save money. He’s not going to become a doctor or a lawyer or anything. No point in paying out the ass for bragging rights on his resume.

Richie kicks up his feet and uses the momentum to swing himself upright, the old springs creaking beneath him in a wave.

“So you’ll be back next weekend, right? We’re getting Natural Born Killers down at the theater. Ask nicely and I might swing you a ticket.”

“As much as I like watching you jack off to Oliver Stone, I’ll have to run it by my mom first.”

“You know she lost all her legal rights over you two weeks ago, right? You can do whatever you want now, short of buying beer or renting a car. We could go get tattoos. Buy some lottery tickets. Notarize our wills, and if things get really crazy, maybe sign our own field trip slips.”

Eddie smiles, stuffing one last shirt in his bag before zipping it up, his closet now empty except for some loose hangers and empty boxes.

Then he goes quiet, kneeling on the floor, his fingers still gripping the zipper.

Eddie’s been getting these weird quiet spells lately, but Richie hasn’t been able to figure out what the trigger is. They seem to happen randomly. Whether it’s a conversation about the ethics of theater hopping or how long Fred and Lorraine’s marriage is going to last, Eddie will pause mid-sentence and just stare at whatever’s in his eye line, letting the silence grow awkward, but then he’ll snap out of it and carry on as if nothing happened.

If Richie had to guess, he’d say that the reality of the move hasn’t fully sunk in yet. After all, leaving Derry doesn’t feel like something one can simply do. This place has it’s own rules, it’s own laws. Sometimes Richie’s not sure whether the whole world revolves around this town, or if it exists in another world entirely. Either way, it’s hard to believe they could simply leave and never come back. Richie was born here, right up the street at Hope Haven Hospital, the same place where Eddie was born two months later. And as much as they mutually hate this town, neither of them have ever lived beyond the city limits. And in just a handful of minutes, Eddie will be crossing over that border, and when he looks back his home won’t be here anymore. It will belong to someone else. This house, with its sticky carpets, ugly molding, and stench of TV dinners and Pinesol is the only home he’s ever known, even if his best memories involved hiding in this room and pretending the rest of the house didn’t exist.

Their graduation ceremony was last week, and since then they’ve spent their free time visiting all their old haunts: the clubhouse, the abandoned hunter’s perch, the arcade, the random back alleys and shortcuts that an outsider wouldn’t think to look for. And Richie’s tried to keep a smile plastered on his face the entire time to hide the fact that he’s probably just as sad about Eddie leaving for college as any parent.

“Hey,” Eddie says, still looking down at his bag. “Don’t quote me on this, but I’m really gonna miss you.”

Richie’s throat tenses up, and he smiles in the hope that Eddie won’t notice that he’s been one bad joke away from crying all day.

“You’ll see me around.”

“Yeah, but not as much.”

Eddie stands back up, still staring down at the canvas bag.

His mom is waiting out in the car. Everything else is packed. Richie helped tie the last of their furniture to the roof. Whatever’s in this room is all that’s left, and now they’re procrastinating, stretching out the time, like two kids trying to stay awake at a sleepover even though their eyes are already halfway shut.

“You know, I don’t have shit to do next year,” Richie says, breaking the silence. “I could move down to Waterville. Find some shitty job and live off canned corn for a while. Crash all your parties and steal all your dates.”

Eddie lets out a short laugh, but doesn’t respond any further, and Richie suddenly feels a nauseating urge to crawl into a hole.

Why the fuck did he say that? Sure, he could easily brush it off as a joke, but he shouldn’t have even put it out there in the first place.

But honestly, he’s been daydreaming about it for weeks now. Ever since Eddie first got his acceptance letter. Waterville is a college town, so there’s got to be some cheap housing. Richie could buy a car, find some minimum wage job, and he and Eddie could continue on as they always have, same pair different place.

But that’s weird, right? Moving somewhere just to hang out with your best friend? That’s definitely taking things way to far. In fact, it’s clingy, and stupid. All the other seniors are saying their goodbyes. People who’ve known each other since preschool are separating to opposite ends of the country. Couples are splitting up, some are naively promising to stay together, and a few stupid ones are getting married.

And Richie will have to say goodbye to the rest of the Losers too. One by one they’ll all leave Derry to start their real lives, and it will probably be a very long time before they’re all in the same room again, if ever, but Richie doesn’t want to think about that possibility.

God, they’ve had so much time together. Forty hours a week, forty weeks a year, soon to be slashed to occasional phone calls and letters they probably won’t write. It sucks for everybody, and they’re all dealing with it in their own way, but none of the other Losers are offering to move to another city just to hang out. That’s not normal, and he’s stupid for even suggesting it.

He tries to think of something else to say. The clock is ticking. Eddie’s mom said she’d give him fifteen minutes to pack up the rest of his clothes, and according to Richie’s watch, they only have two left. Fuck, why couldn’t they have a bit more time? Of course Richie knows that Eddie can get on a bus and come back to Derry any time he wants, but still, for some reason, it feels like he’s leaving forever.

Eddie exhales loudly, and Richie waits, expecting him to say something, but instead he just walks over and sits beside Richie on the bare mattress, the frame so close to the ground that his knees come up higher than his hips.

Why can’t Richie think of anything to say? Now of all times, after weeks of nothing but effortless conversations that stretched on for hours, now the only thoughts coming to his head are recycled bits of smalltalk and movie references.

They need to end this chapter on good terms. If they don’t, Richie’s scared that Eddie might never come back.

He needs to give him a reason to come back.

“Hey,” Eddie says, staring down at his hands.

“Yeah?”

Before he can get a response, Eddie turns and kisses him.

And Richie, like a startled animal, immediately pulls back.

Then they’re staring face to face, Eddie leaning forward, Richie leaning back, awkward angles and empty space.

“What was that for?” Richie tries to laugh, his arms beginning to tremble.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Eddie jerks back and hunches forward, his shoulders taut and face red, making Richie feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet.

“No, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Richie says as earnestly as he can, reaching out to place a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, only for him to shrug it off.

“It’s cool,” Eddie whispers, his voice high and tight.

Richie knows there’s nothing he can say that will make this better, so instead, he takes Eddie’s face in his hands and kisses him again.

Reality catches up with him fast.

His brain is static, his chest is burning, he wants nothing more than to focus on the feel of Eddie’s lips but everything else is too noisy. He’s confused, and so fucking nervous. He’s stupidly wanted this for years; a thousand variations of the same daydream sitting in his head like a film archive, and every day he’d put one on the projector and torture himself anew. But now it’s really fucking happening, and he has no clue what he’s supposed to do. It feels like he’s holding a sheet of paper up to a mirror and suddenly the backwards letters are running in the right direction; it makes sense, but it shouldn’t.

Eddie’s lips are soft, but still taut, and Richie’s hands are shaking against his cheeks but he doesn’t want to pull away because they might only have a few seconds left and he wants to drag this out till the bitter end. He’s wanted this for five years. Eddie’s mom can spare them one fucking minute.

Just focus on Eddie. Focus on what it feels like. Remember it. It’s your first kiss, fucking remember it.

Eddie is stiff at first, but then he slowly relaxes, the tight drum of his mouth going pliant, and Richie feels light-headed at the sensation of the warm air from Eddie’s nose caressing his cheek.

Then Eddie moves. He tilts his head a bit, and gently flexes his mouth, pulling back then pressing forward again, the sound of his lips resonating in Richie’s head.

Richie tries to relax his hands, but they’re trembling so fucking hard.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to kiss. He thought it’d be intuitive, but it’s not. All he can do is keep his eyes shut and try to fill the empty spaces, moving when Eddie moves, each sigh and cycle simultaneously calming and inflaming his confusion, almost like when he finds himself kissing strangers in a dream.

But this isn’t a dream, despite the surreal film in the air. They’ve reached an agreement. They both want more than friendship, and now they’ve mutually signed the contract.

This is everything Richie wanted. And kissing Eddie feels like letting out a breath he’s been holding for five years.

Suddenly, the sound of a car horn violently fills the room, causing them to jerk apart.

“Shit,” Eddie curses, wiping a sleeve across his mouth before quickly standing up and reaching for his duffle bag, his movements skittish.

“I have to go.”

Eddie picks up the bag and slings it over his shoulder, clutching the strap tight.

He’s leaving. They’re out of time, and Richie feels like a child on the verge of tears because recess is ending right in the middle of their game. The room isn’t spinning, but it feels like it should be. He wants to ask Eddie stay. Spend the night at his place and get a bus to Bangor tomorrow, but he knows Eddie’s mom would never allow it; she needs him to do most of the unpacking.

No, he’ll just have to be patient.

On autopilot he reaches down to pick up the cardboard box sitting on the floor. He almost feels drunk, that slight disconnect between his brain and limbs, his movements on a minor delay. Time got caught on a nail somewhere. Kissing Eddie feels like it simultaneously happened both ten seconds and ten hours ago. But now they’re back to reality and Eddie is leaving and this house will be empty and neither of them will set foot in it ever again.

But this isn’t goodbye. Eddie will be back in two weeks at the latest. Richie’s parents have already said that Eddie’s welcome to stay over anytime he wants. And it’s summer. It’s not like Eddie has any reason to hang out in Bangor. No, this is no different than saying goodbye before Christmas break.

He just wishes they could’ve had this sooner.

Eddie holds the screen door open for him, a weird formality to their movements, like they’re in the early stages of some outdated courtship ritual. Richie waits as Eddie locks the door and hands him the key, which he promised to drop off at the real estate agent’s office tomorrow since they closed at five.

The key is slightly warm when Eddie hands it off, and a shudder goes up Richie’s arm as he rubs his thumb against the metal like a worry stone.

Another impatient honk from the car.

“I’m coming!” Eddie shouts.

Richie follows him to the sidewalk, keeping at least four feet of space between them, looking down at the back of Eddie’s heels.

The sky around them is turning pink. There are bright, purple clouds drifting in streaks above the trees. Lights are starting to come on in the neighboring houses, but the sidewalk is empty, all theirs.

Eddie stops a few feet from the car and turns back to face him, still clutching the strap of his bag with both hands.

Richie’s always been scared to look at Eddie for too long. Sometimes he’ll sneak glimpses when Eddie’s distracted, but he’d shift his gaze the second Eddie so much as twitched. But now he can look as hard as he wants; Eddie’s letting him, so Richie’s eyes rapidly dart across his features: eyes, nose, lips, ears, suddenly noticing things he never saw before, wondering how many more details he’ll discover now that he’s truly allowed to look.

“Hey, um, we haven’t got the phone set up at the new place yet, but I’ll call you and give you the new number as soon as we do,” Eddie says with an artificial casualness.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Richie replies with his best impression of Eddie’s tone.

This is probably the point where they would hug, and Richie wants to so fucking badly, but Eddie’s mom is glaring at them insistently, and Richie’s scared that she’ll notice something is different.

Eddie seems to be on the same wavelength, so in lieu of a hug, he just looks him in the eye with an intensity that reaches Richie’s core.

“I’ll see you soon,” Eddie says with a small half-smile.

“Yeah, see you soon.”

One final smile, then Eddie turns around and opens the back door to stuff his duffle bag between the boxes before taking his place in the front. His mom gives Richie one last dirty look before turning the ignition, and the old car sputters to life with a sickly grunt.

Richie keeps his eyes on Eddie as the car pulls out, refusing to look away until there’s truly nothing left to see.

Then he watches the car make its way down the street, the colors of the sunset sparkling against the metal frame. The car rolls down two more blocks before turning right onto Maple, and then it’s out of sight.

And Richie smiles. He smiles so hard it feels like his cheeks are made of rubber.

Eddie kissed him.

Eddie Kaspbrak fucking kissed him.

He stands there dumbstruck for a few moments, repressing the urge to laugh. Or shout. Or run. Something that will relieve this euphoria swelling up inside him. It feels like his heart just released spores throughout his entire body, like a cloud of dandelion fluff.

With the box gripped tight, he starts walking home, trying and failing to suppress the smile that must be engulfing his entire face like some invasive species. His muscles are aching with it. He’s embarrassed what others will think. He’ll manage to pull one side down only for it to rise up again, like when you hear a joke so terrible you can’t stop laughing and crumple to the floor in tears.

It just feels so unreal. He was prepared to circle around Eddie for the rest of his life. Watch him from a distance, grit his teeth through Eddie’s relationships and indulge in sick satisfaction at his break ups. Bend his future around the potential of Eddie’s company. The privilege of looking at him. The chance to touch him in casual gestures. Cycles of stupid hope and earned misery, hating himself for letting it go so far, for wanting more, and jeopardizing everything as a result. Knowing that the longer he stuck around the worse their inevitable separation would be. But he was prepared to hang around as long as Eddie let him because squandering a single second felt like throwing away perfectly good food. You eat it even if it makes you sick. You eat it and you’re grateful just to be fed.

But he doesn’t have to think that way anymore.

Because Eddie likes him back and he just had his first kiss with the boy he loves, and the best part is they can keep it a secret. No one else has to know. Not for a long time anyway, maybe never, and Eddie’s the only person in the world he could trust to keep this secret alongside him.

He was so fucking scared of trying to find someone else. Going out into the world and trying to fall in love with strangers he hasn’t known since childhood. He doesn’t trust any of them. He doesn’t trust anybody. He could fuck some nameless guy out in the middle of the tundra and he’d still be paranoid for the rest of his life that it would somehow make its way back to his parents. A whisper chain stretching thousands of miles, all the way around the earth, haunting him, restraining him, telling him he would never be safe.

But he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.

Because Eddie likes him.

He likes him and maybe next fall Richie can move down to Waterville. Eddie’s supposed to be staying in a dorm, but if Richie’s working full time then maybe they can afford a small apartment. They can be alone together. They can blow their money on take-out that’s probably a lot better than the shit they offer in Derry. They can buy a TV and put it in front of their bed, a queen or king-sized mattress so much bigger than the twins they’ve been sleeping on since they were children. They can shower together, get high together, and have sex as much as they want and no one can tell them otherwise. It’s such a beautiful fantasy. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

And they’ll have all summer to work out the details.

His smile is still firmly in place by the time he gets home. He carries the box with him up to his room, uncomfortable with the idea of putting it in the garage with all the mouse droppings and wood chips. Instead, he gently places it on his carpet and stares at the eclectic array of objects that once inhabited Eddie’s room: an old metal compass, some books he read in middle school, a couple of hacky sacks, and cassette tapes he doesn’t listen to anymore. All of Eddie’s rejects, a picture of who he isn’t, the inverse of his personality still somehow a perfect portrait.

Richie collapses onto the bed and curls his knees up to his chest, for some reason the happiness compelling him to make himself as small as possible. God, maybe in just a few days he’ll get to lie with Eddie in this very bed. He’ll get to kiss him. See him naked. He’s seen him shirtless a million times before, but now he’ll get to see his full body laid out. He’ll get to kiss along his stomach and run his hands up the hair on his legs, bury his face in his neck and smile against his mouth. He’ll finally get to hold another person’s body, feel Eddie’s chest rising and falling, his feet twitching and muscles shifting. He’ll get to feel all of it.

“Richie! Dinner!” his mom calls from the top of the stairs, yanking him out of his reverie and jolting from the shock. He rubs his eyes and takes a breath, trying to tamper things down before heading out of his room and back down the stairs.

His parents regard his good mood suspiciously. He’s been depressed over Eddie’s move for weeks, but now his smile is so resilient it looks like some botched plastic surgery. His dad asks him what’s got him in such a state, and he can’t even come up with a decent excuse. So he just eats his pasta and opts to have two of the three beers he’s allowed per week, then he says goodnight and heads back up to his room, and realizes after he closes the door that his parents probably think he’s completely stoned.

And there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be. So he lights up a joint and smokes it out his window, staring up at the stars, remembering a few of their names. There are coyotes howling in the nearby woods. His skin erupts in goosebumps with every gust of wind. The branches of the trees outside his window seem to be merging into patterns, connected by a twisting through line, like those maze books he liked as a kid; a perfect path in a messy world. And it makes sense. He’s not sure how, but all of it makes sense.

And he’s still smiling.

He’s happy.

He’s so fucking happy.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie wakes up the next morning to the sound of a mosquito buzzing around his ear. He shakes his head to drive it off, only for the little bastard to circle back around and try its luck nesting its way into his other ear. He swats it away then pulls the blanket over his head, trapping the fucker on the other side. Once it seems to lose interest, Richie closes his eyes and tries to fall back asleep, his warm breaths insulating the small cave.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open as he remembers what happened yesterday, but within a few seconds he realizes that it was probably just a dream, and he could almost throw a tantrum from the disappointment. The dregs of his actual dreams are still fresh in his mind, but as they grow more distant, he manages to muddle out his real memories from the fake, until he’s positive that what happened in Eddie’s room is just as real as the moment he’s in right now.

He checks his watch: 7:13am. He kissed Eddie roughly twelve hours ago. And best of all, Eddie kissed him first.

He presses his forehead into the pillow and wraps his arms tight around his chest, squeezing his shoulders as he replays the moment, tries to gather up all the missing seconds. If there are other thoughts in his head they’ve been temporarily sequestered as his happiness eclipses everything else, brightening unpleasant memories with a coat of varnish. All the awful days and worse nights, retroactively more bearable with the knowledge that he won’t have to endure many more like them.

He has someone now. Only eighteen and he’s found the person he wants to be with for the rest of his life. Sure, there are plenty of couples at school who had sex in the back of a truck and started waltzing around like they invented romance, but what he has with Eddie feels like the poetic shit they had to read in English lit. It’s perfect, the best it ever could be, and now Richie doesn’t have to worry anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about winding up alone.

When he opens his eyes again it’s 11:02, and he’s somehow groggier than he was four hours ago. He fell asleep with his head still under the blanket, and now he’s sticky with several layers of dry and fresh sweat. With a groan he kicks the blanket down to the foot of the bed and sits up to pull off his shirt before falling back against his pillow and reveling in the cool air.

Actually, it’s cooler than it should be, and when he looks over to the window he sees that he left it wide open last night, which would explain the half dozen mosquitoes buzzing around his ceiling. He begrudgingly picks up the sweaty shirt he just discarded and slips it back on to guard his skin and help deprive those fuckers of a meal. Then he shuts the window and starts heading downstairs, knowing that his parents left for work hours ago.

He opens the fridge and takes several deep gulps of orange juice straight from the carton, which his parents can’t even get on his case about since he bought it with his own money. He should probably enjoy these small rebellions while they’re still fresh, as he has a feeling they’ll lose their charm once he’s out on his own.

He looks at his watch again: 11:19. Does he have enough time to visit Eddie before his shift down at the theater? It’s only an hour by bus, and he’s pretty sure the bus always leaves at 12:30 on weekdays; the same line they always take to get to the airport. Yeah, he could go surprise Eddie. Maybe help them unpack a bit. And he’s sure he could be back by–

His line of thought stops dead once he realizes that Eddie never gave him his new address, and he has no way to get it. He vaguely knows they’re renting a one-story house about two miles from downtown, but that doesn’t really narrow things down, so it looks like Richie’s visitation rights are on hold until Eddie gives him that call.

Fuck, that really sucks. Especially since his contact list is getting pretty thin now that Eddie’s gone.

Bill’s at a summer writing workshop in the Adirondacks; Ben’s doing some pre-college architecture program in Boston that’s apparently a really big deal; Bev’s staying with her aunt in Portland and working over the summer, so that just leaves him, Mike, and Stan still in Derry. But Mike doesn’t get a real summer vacation like the rest of them; he has to keep working on the farm and making deliveries and is only free in the evenings when Richie’s at work, so that just leaves Stan, but even his time is split between tutoring junior high summer school kids and helping his dad over at the synagogue, so until Eddie gets his phone up and running it seems like Richie’s going to have to keep himself entertained.

His hours got bumped after school let out, and now he’s working 6pm to 1am five nights a week selling tickets over at the movie theater, and it’s obviously a lot busier now that summer’s rolled around. The pay’s not great, barely above minimum wage, but he gets complimentary tickets and is allowed to take home the uneaten snacks from concession and when traffic is slow he gets to chill with Paul, the twenty-five-year-old assistant manager and Derry’s resident weed dealer.

Paul started selling to him at fifteen and got him the job at sixteen, and now Richie’s finally old enough that Paul has no gripes spilling shit about his personal life and sharing whatever gossip he hears along his route, and sometimes Richie walks home feeling like an information broker in some mob movie, full of intel and petty drama. He likes being in the know. He likes knowing that other people have secrets, many much worse than his own. And in a weird way, it makes him feel connected to this town in a way that almost makes it feel normal.

It’s a Wednesday night and things are pretty slow, so he and Paul chat between the rotating cycles of the two theaters, and Richie tries to hide the fact that a fucking tectonic plate just shifted yesterday. That the trajectory of his life just took a massive fucking turn for the better. But no, instead he bitches about the goddamn mosquitoes, and the jizz stain he had to clean up in the back row last week, and he and Paul spend a good hour spitballing what Oliver Stone had to cut from Natural Born Killers to get it down to that R rating.

Once the last showing is over, Richie hauls the trash out back to the dumpster and sweeps through the rows while Paul vacuums the lobby and wipes down the counters. This is usually the shittiest part of Richie’s night, but as he’s criss-crossing through the rows he can’t stop thinking about all the times he shared these seats with his friends. How one of them would usually arrive early and stupidly try to drape a jacket over six extra seats at once. And hey, no cum stains tonight, so he’ll call that a win.

“You want a ride home?” Paul asks while locking up the double doors, Richie standing on the sidewalk a few feet away.

“Nah, it’s nice out. I’ll walk,” he replies, already bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet.

“You headed someplace special?” Paul asks with a smile while pulling out his ever-present box of cigarettes.

Richie shrugs. “Just home to the parent trap.”

Paul hums in acknowledgement as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth and flicks his lighter.

“You’ve had that smile stuck on your face all night. Figured you might have someone waiting up for ya’.”

Richie’s face goes warm and he instinctively looks down at his feet, giddy embarrassment making his ears tingle. But a second after the blood rushes to his face, something hard drops in his stomach, the duel momentum stretching the ligaments in his chest.

His eyes dart around the sidewalk as he searches for an answer. If he says no, then he’ll have to come up with some other excuse for his slap happy behavior. But he can’t say yes. Of course he can’t.

“So, who’s the lucky bird?” Pauls asks, giving him a teasing smile.

Richie swallows. It’ll be fine. He doesn’t have to be fully honest. He can be vague. He can deflect.

“Don’t wanna say yet. Might jinx it,” he says, and hey, it’s not actually a lie.

“Smart. You gotta let something like that marinade for a while. Well, have fun and don’t get anyone in trouble,” Paul says, turning on his heel and giving Richie a wave over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the parking lot and leaving Richie alone under the marquee with an uneasy smile and anxious heartbeat.

He starts quickly walking home, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the air slightly chilly even though it’s mid-June. Okay, it’s really not that cold, but he feels like he was just doused with a bucket of cold water. Not ice cold, not freezing, but still not fucking pleasant.

Of course he’s thought about how Paul would react if he found out, but Richie’s never had to lie by omission to keep it hidden before. Because when it comes down to it, he has no fucking clue how Paul will react, or anyone for that matter. Sure, he can make educated guesses, weigh the odds and try to play his cards right, but he doesn’t fucking want to start playing that game while he’s still living off his parents. Or while he’s still in this goddamn town.

Maybe when things between him and Eddie get really serious they can start testing the waters. Maybe a year from now, or more. Or maybe they should keep this to themselves for as long as they can get away with it. If no one finds out, then they’ll never have to deal with the fallout, and Richie can pretend that his parents won’t give a shit. He can indulge in his stupid fantasy that no one will turn on them, that their lives will be just as good before as after. But he knows that strategy will run out of stream at some point, and he’ll just be left with gnawing paranoia. His parents are already weirded out that he’s eighteen and has never been on a real date. How many more years can he plausibly get away with it?

After unlocking the front door he goes straight for the answering machine, and he’s unsurprised, but still disappointed to see a stagnant red 0. He closes his eyes, then opens them again, as if there was just a speck of dust messing with his vision, but obviously the same number is still waiting for him.

Of course it’ll take a bit longer. They’re probably still unpacking, and Richie’s not sure how long it takes to set up a landline, but it’s got to be at least a few days.

He just wants to hear Eddie’s voice again. It’s been one fucking day and already he feels homesick for him. With a sigh he runs a hand through his hair while walking over to the kitchen, where he gulps down some more orange juice and grabs a handful of Oreos. Then he goes through his usual nightly routine of turning off the lights in one room and immediately darting into the next, almost panting by the time he makes it to the safety of his bedroom where he still secretly sleeps with a nightlight that he also bought with his own money. It was a decent investment too. Better than buying batteries every other day to keep his flashlight going.

The next day goes just about the same. He wakes up, chills, goes to work, and finds no messages waiting for him when he arrives home. It’s the same the next day, and the next, and by now Richie has a sense that this is going to become his routine. Sure, he had this stupid fever dream that he might work on some side projects over the summer, but so far his free hours between 11am and 6pm have been reserved for TV, music, jerking off, and smoking just enough to get buzzed without making him useless.

It’s a charmed life, he supposes. There won’t be many more periods like this, so he might as well bask in it. After all, it’s undeniably decadent. Having the house all to himself, no homework, no restrictions, dinner leftovers for lunch and instant mac and cheese for dinner. Just lying in bed, alone with his thoughts and a phone that won’t ring; the same red 0 always waiting for him, a digital rectangle staring at him like a vindictive eye.

On the fifth night the answering machine plays a dirty fucking trick. When he arrives home he sees a bright blinking 1, and euphoria comparable to an orgasm washes through him, but as soon as he presses the button all he hears is the artificial trill of a telemarketer, and his insides collapse as if he just lost a million dollar blackjack hand. But he still listens till the very end out of some stupid hope that it’s just a practical joke on Eddie’s part. That his real voice will chime in at the very end. But no, the message cuts out with a braincell-killing beep, and Richie goes to sleep gutted.

He’s off work the next day, which means he has more time to stare at the phone he keeps in his room and mentally will it to ring. At this point he considers asking his parents how long it takes to set up a landline, but he’s afraid to ask because he’s guessing the answer is “not that long.”

The next day he walks over to Big Apple and buys two packs of cigarettes; the first he’s ever purchased. He’s tried not to make a habit of smoking, only bumming them off Bev on special occasions, but the truth is he’s avoided smoking for the simple reason that Eddie doesn’t like it. And given that his dad died of lung cancer at the age of thirty-five, Richie has no right to get on his case about it.

But Eddie isn’t here right now, so Richie buys two packs of Marlboro Lights – the same brand Bev and Paul smoke – and he taps a box on his palm on the walk out the way he’s seen a million people do it before. Then he wanders in the direction of the woods, figuring he might as well balance out the smoke with some fresh air. He makes it to the trail head and starts walking along the path, trying to enjoy the crunch of the leaves without dwelling too hard on Eddie, but that lasts about ten minutes before he starts worrying that Eddie’s going to call in his absence, and the entire walk back turns into a mental battle: one half telling him to expect that ugly fucking zero because course he hasn’t called, you fucking idiot; and the other half slightly kinder, telling him not to get his hopes up, but to remember that the odds are always above zero.

But it turns out above zero isn’t fucking good enough.

Fuck, maybe it isn’t just an issue with the phone. Maybe something serious happened. Like maybe they got into an accident on the drive over. Eddie’s mom is a really shitty driver after all, much worse than Eddie himself. But that option seems unlikely. Richie’s parents read the papers and watch the local news every night, so they definitely would’ve heard about something like that.

Maybe they did get the phone set up but Eddie’s mom isn’t letting him use it. But then couldn’t he use a payphone? But Eddie did mention that they were out in the suburbs, so he might have to walk a ways to find one. What if his mom is keeping him inside? Not letting him go out? That sounds like some shit she would pull, but then again, Eddie’s eighteen and his mom can barely put on her own socks. If he wants to get out of the house, he’ll get out of the house.

The more he thinks about it, the more he beats down all the excuses, the more certain he becomes that all of this has a very simple explanation:

Eddie simply doesn’t want to talk to him.

That’s when it starts. That’s when Richie starts to feel like he’s caught in the middle of a very bad trip as he begins dredging up and scrutinizing every fucking mistake he’s made since kindergarten: all the times he deliberately pushed Eddie’s buttons, sometimes to the point of tears. All the backhanded compliments, the mean jokes, that time he bought a coke for himself but not for Eddie. That time he bailed on him after homecoming to get drunk. How he never finished any of the damn books Eddie recommended, ones he still has on his shelf after months and years of being left unopened.

Daily fuckups marking his record. A lifetime of reasons why Eddie doesn’t want to call him.

But what was that kiss then? Was Eddie just curious? Was he just fucking around? Did he want it in the moment only for Richie to fuck it up so badly he changed his mind? And now he’s cutting him off because that’s easier than telling him straight to his face that it was a mistake?

How can Richie fix this? He has no way to apologize. All he can hope is that Eddie will eventually get over it and get back in touch, then Richie can prove how dedicated he is. How thoughtful and attentive he can be. The type of person who Eddie should definitely allow to suck on his tongue and share a cheap apartment with.

Yeah, Eddie will get over it. They’ve had fights before, but their silent treatments never lasted more than a week. Eddie will call him soon. He wouldn’t bail on a decade of friendship over a few stupid missteps, right?

But then a cruel thought worms its way into his head: one so devious and fucked up he’s surprised the clown didn’t patent it.

What if Eddie is calling everyone else, but not him?

What if he’s already called Stan and Mike, and maybe Bev out in Portland too? Richie hasn’t heard from any of them since Eddie left. Jesus, he knows that’s a stupid thought. Eddie wouldn’t fucking do something like that. Ignore him then go behind his back to turn their friends against him. No, none of them would do that, and he’s stupid for even letting it cross his mind. But Christ, it won’t go away, and the more he argues against it, the more plausible it becomes.

He doesn’t leave his room until five the next day. Instead he spends the hours alternating between his bed and carpet, his stomach growling, but too nauseous to eat. Just lying there as new memories rise up like zombies, old mistakes now dripping with a fresh coat of paint, buzzing around him like the fucking mosquitoes. Nagging monologues in his own voice describing in sick detail what a piece of shit he is. A fucking broken slideshow spinning behind his eyes. All the stupid shit he’s said over the years, shit he regretted immediately, now playing over and over again with no end in sight. An archive of every fucking mistake, every time he took Eddie for granted, all the missed opportunities, all the ways he could’ve been a better person.

He smokes through an entire pack in five hours. Right there by his window, his phone sitting on the floor inches from his face. His eyes dart to it every few seconds, but he won’t let himself stare outright because that would be pathetic. Instead he tries to keep his gaze fixed on the sky, and by mid-afternoon his hands begin to tremble and his stomach starts roiling. The room reeks and his nose is clogged with mucus, but he still smokes the pack to the very end, then immediately starts dry heaving into the trashcan by his desk.

The sickness and discomfort are almost strong enough to drive away his vicious thoughts, but no matter where he turns there’s always a more cataclysmic outcome waiting around the corner. Never-ending doors all leading to the same conclusion that Eddie simply doesn’t want him.

He still hasn’t cried though. He hasn’t fucking cried.

His shift that night is excruciating, but through some magical autopilot energy he manages to keep himself upright, hit all the beats, fill in the blanks, brief moments of distraction with his own voice waiting in the gaps, twisting reality into its cruelest potential. A butterfly effect, one missed phone call enough to ruin his future and any trace amount of happiness it could’ve held.

That night he gets home from the theater and that ugly red 0 is still waiting for him, and as soon as his eyes register its shape, they grow blurry with tears. He chokes them back as he walks upstairs and shuts his door, immediately sinking down to his knees and letting out a muffled whine before crawling to the drawer where he keeps his nightlight, and for a few moments his misery is overshadowed by his fear that something might be lurking in the darkness.

But once he’s safe in that small circle of light, he presses his face into the carpet and claws at it with his dull nails, eyes burning, chest heaving, and when he coughs it tastes like blood. After pushing the window open he sinks to the floor once again and pulls his knees up to his chest as everything comes crashing down.

Piece by piece the walls chip away. That fantasy, the apartment with the queen-sized bed and TV. Bare feet and sweatpants, takeout boxes and secondhand furniture, all breaking apart. The floorboards are caving in, his home crumbling into something ugly and uninhabitable, and Richie’s lying right there in the center of it, curled up on a bare mattress, sobbing as that future grows ever farther out of reach.

It’s not fucking fair. He spent years trying to convince himself that he didn’t want Eddie. All the mental thorn bushes, the overcompensation, averting his eyes, micromanaging his mannerisms, trying to jerk off to the right people and parts, his reality becoming harder to ignore with every flash of heat beneath his skin. Sometimes he’d go days hardly thinking about it, but all it took was one glance from an attractive stranger and suddenly explicit thoughts would pour into every gap in his brain like concrete.

The thoughts have been with him for over a decade now. The floor is lava, don’t touch. Men are present, don’t look. Distractions are useless. He might as well try to distract himself into forgetting his own name. Sometimes he’ll wake up in the morning and for a few blissful seconds exist as nothing more than warmth and the remnants of some dream, but then with a piercing crack he’ll remember who he is – who he wants – and then he’ll lie there mourning those few perfect seconds where he lacked all sense of self.

And he tries not to think about the future. He doesn’t want to accept that this is who he’ll be for the rest of his life. His brain has finished growing, his body has too, and this is what he’s left with. It’s not his fault. He didn’t ask for this. He lost the lottery and now has to live with the jealous knowledge that he could’ve had something better if he were only born slightly different. He could’ve had that stupid, carefree love that the kids in school like to rub all over the lockers, but instead he’s buried here wanting things that will make him miserable. Things that will make him paranoid, lonely, and afraid.

The worst part is he’ll never get to experience love without fear. It’s a two for the price of one deal, two opposites permanently merged like a mutated cell. Love: the one fucking thing that’s supposed to make him unconditionally happy, tainted by this undercurrent of fear flowing through him like a second bloodstream. God, imagine feeling both safe and in love. Imagine it.

Eddie was his only option. Eddie was the only person in the whole fucking world who could have made it bearable. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Find someone else? He doesn’t fucking want anyone else. He doesn’t want to settle for anything less, but now Eddie’s gone and Richie might never see him again and there’s nothing he can do expect lie on the floor, stare at the phone, and sob until his ribs feel like they’re going to puncture his lungs. If he dials the right number it’ll bring him to Eddie’s voice. If Richie just punches in the right string of digits, he’ll find him. He can cry and beg Eddie for another chance. Doesn’t he deserve one more chance?

God, Richie would’ve loved him so fucking much. Does Eddie have any fucking clue how much he would have loved him?

He wakes up on the carpet the next morning, and when he opens his swollen eyes the first object in his line of sight is the fucking phone. He checks his watch maybe every twenty minutes as the hours slip by, his headache growing violent, his skin putrid, and after three hours of lying there he manages to move enough to tug the blanket off his bed and sleep until his shift draws close. Then he sits on the floor of the shower, puts on a pair of clean clothes, and dawdles in the living room until the absolute last second before he’ll be late, certain that if the phone does ring, it’ll happen the moment he steps out the door.

It doesn’t ring, and he keeps his head low while walking to the theater, his self-hating monologue still running on a treadmill. He stops to buy another pack of cigarettes, and smokes two on his walk over, steeling himself for seven hours of fake smiles and second-long distractions. He doesn’t care that there are plenty of people around town who might tell his parents. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like they have any illusion he has virgin lungs anyway.

He lights up another one immediately after his shift is over, standing under the marquee while Paul is locking up behind him. The first puff is refreshing like a cool sip of water, a brief respite from his overcrowded head. He hasn’t told Paul about the smoking yet, but he could obviously smell it on him all night.

“Guessing things didn’t work out with your friend?” Paul asks.

Richie could almost laugh. But in lieu of a response, he just takes another drag.

“Shit, I’m sorry, man. I wish I could say there’s other fish in the sea, but the pickings around here are pretty slim.”

Richie wants to respond with something snarky. Something on brand. But his throat is aching from more than the nicotine, and he’s afraid opening his mouth will be a one-way ticket to crying.

“Come on, let me give you a ride home,” Paul says, waving him in the direction of the parking lot.

Richie follows without protest. His house is only nine blocks away. He can keep it together for that long.

He steps into the passenger side of Paul’s beat up Buick, the rear bumper a gnarled mess after a collision three years ago. Paul pulls out onto the street and they drive in silence for a few blocks, Richie smoking his cigarette with his eyes out the window, passing by the houses and yards he could draw from memory.

“You should get out of town for a while. Blow off some steam,” Paul says as they drive past Governor Street.

“Yeah? Where should I go?”

“Hell if I know. Where you wanna go?”

Richie exhales out the window before twisting the butt ofhis cigarette in the crowded ashtray sitting between the seats.

Where does he want to go? His only plan was to follow Eddie, make a home wherever he settled, drift alongside him like a migrant farmer following the seasons. But without Eddie, what does he actually want?

“New York,” he answers, just because it’s the first place that comes to mind.

“Shit, you could get there by tomorrow if you want,” Paul says while driving through a stop sign. “I mean, you’re welcome to keep punching tickets all summer if you want, but if you ever need a break, just give me a few days notice. No one should hang around here forever.”

Richie gives a small laugh. As far as he knows, Paul hasn’t left Derry since he graduated seven years ago.

“Yeah, I think you’re on to something.”

Paul turns left and cruises for a few more meters before they’re in front of Richie’s house, the front porch light still on, awaiting his arrival.

“Say hi to your folks for me.”

“Will do. Goodnight.”

“’Night.”

Richie pulls the handle and pushes the door open.

“Wait,” Paul says before Richie can take a step outside. His hand is raised, and Richie waits, wondering what he’s going to say. Then Paul sighs and lowers his hand.

“You’re good. You know that, right? You’re good.”

Richie stares at him, trying to parse out what he’s talking about. The words feel heavy in their simplicity.

They’re both silent, the street is too, then Paul continues.

“And hey, if you ever need to get out of town. If you need money, a ride, a place to stay, anything. I’ll be around.”

Richie’s hand goes taut against the door that’s still halfway open, that familiar fear shooting up his spine like ice.

“Sorry,” Paul says, “you don’t have to read anything into that. Just let me know if you need anything. In general.”

Richie nods, unable to speak, so scared that he’ll say the wrong thing.

Paul knows. How did he figure it out? How many others know?

But after the initial shock passes, he realizes something.

Paul knows, and everything’s okay. He’s still alive, the world is still intact. Years of pretending, guarding his secret behind some patchwork personality, all over, and now he’s on the other side. And Paul’s offering to help him. He cares about him. Is there a better outcome he could’ve hoped for?

He relaxes then, his grip loosening. He takes a deep breath, and feels some of the poison drain from his head.

“He hasn’t called me yet,” Richie says softly, confirming what was unspoken.

“The guy you were seeing?” Paul asks, his tone so casual that Richie feels like they’re stuck in two different conversations.

Richie gives a small nod, then laughs. “God, it sounds so fucking stupid when I say it aloud. It’s only been nine days,” he says, right before sucking a healthy amount of snot back into his nose.

“Can you call _him?_ ” Paul asks, and Richie shakes his head no.

“Well, ‘fraid I can’t help you on that one. But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’ll work it out. And hey, try not to smoke more than half a pack a day if you can.”

Richie lets out a small laugh. Somehow the world feels slightly more aligned, as if a bone were set back in place. Like he can finally see things from the outside looking in again, and from that perspective, his behavior feels so fucking dramatic. He’s crying because a boy won’t call him back. What could be more normal?

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. Now get out before I get towed.”

Richie smiles and steps out onto the street, giving Paul a short wave as he throws the door shut. Then he watches him drive off, the single tail light disappearing around the corner.

Richie cries again that night. Curled up in bed, nightlight on, clutching his pillow against his chest and crying until the grey light of dawn starts seep into his room. But as his breaths finally steady out, he feels a little better. And he begins to think that maybe, just maybe, he can still have a life without Eddie.

He wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing.


	3. Chapter 3

Richie’s lucky he doesn’t break several ribs as he yanks off his blanket and practically throws himself to the floor where his phone is still sitting by the window, and he lunges for it like a dying man crawling towards an oasis.

“Hello?” he slurs, a gnarly clump of phlegm stuck in his throat.

“Hey, Richie?”

It’s not Eddie. He recognizes the voice as Stan’s immediately, and feels his hopes bleed out with the twist of a knife.

“Yeah, what’s up?” he asks, trying not to let the disappointment reach his voice.

“Not much, I was just wondering if you’ve heard from Eddie lately? He said he was going to call right after getting his phone set up, right? But he hasn’t called me yet. Has he called you?”

Richie stares down at the carpet inches from his nose, processing Stan’s words.

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Wow, that’s a relief. I was over here worried he was pissed at me for something. But if he hasn’t called you either that probably just means there’s something wrong with their phone.”

Richie feels like his life just shifted genres. He’s still reeling from the disappointment of hearing Stan’s voice, but suddenly half his fears from the past week evaporate instantly.

Eddie wasn’t calling the rest of them, and now that he has confirmation, he realizes that it was a stupid thought all along. An idiotic conspiracy theory that could have been disproven with a single phone call. Not only that, but Stan was also worried about the exact same thing, which at least makes Richie feel marginally less stupid.

“Yeah, probably. Do you know if he’s gotten in touch with anyone else?” Richie asks.

“I don’t think so. Mike said he hasn’t heard anything. By the way, dude, where’ve you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you around at all lately.”

Richie feels like he just crossed some boundary back into the real world. Like he was out wandering blindfolded in the woods and then stumbled headfirst into the middle of a busy intersection.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve just been at home a lot. But hey, I’ll call you back later. I have something I really need to do. Bye.”

He hangs up before giving Stan a chance to respond. It’s rude as shit, but his brain his rushing a million miles a minute as he finally regains some measure of rationality, and that rationality is telling him that something is very, very wrong.

How did he manage to convince himself that Eddie would just ditch him like that? How did he manage to dig himself so deep? No, there has to be something else going on. Maybe Stan’s right and it is just the phone. Maybe whoever was supposed to install it never showed up. Maybe the one they bought was defective and they haven’t had a chance to exchange it yet. Hell, maybe the power lines are down for the whole neighborhood. There could be a hundred benign explanations.

Or maybe Richie’s initial suspicions were correct. Maybe Eddie’s mom isn’t letting him call anyone, and if she’s cut him off that far, what else could she be doing? This is the woman who convinced Eddie that he had a chronic unnamed illness for eight years of his life, and even after Eddie put all the pieces together she still fought for control anyway she could. Restricting his diet, keeping him on curfew, micromanaging his schedule, humiliating and demeaning him if he didn’t abide by all the pedantic, nonsensical rules she wove around him.

It must be a lot worse now that they’re out in Bangor where Eddie doesn’t know a single person. He doesn’t have any money, Richie knows that much since he’s been spotting him for years. And if he defied his mom, where would he go? Richie’s convinced the only reason she never locked him out of the house back in Derry is because she knew he’d just walk a handful of blocks to Richie, Stan, or Ben’s place, where he’d be welcomed with a bed and possibly a visit from Child Protective Services. But out in Bangor, Eddie has no one.

Richie needs to figure this shit out. He needs to get out of his fucking head and find out if Eddie’s alright. And if he isn’t, then he’ll just have to go to Bangor and get him the fuck out. But how the fuck is he supposed to find him?

Suddenly, it hits him, and the answer’s so obvious he feels like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

The thick yellow phonebook sitting on their coffee table has only two Kaspbraks: Sonia and Marian. Sonia’s number and address is obviously obsolete now, but her sister should still be at the same address in Sangerville, which is an easy drive from Derry. Richie knows next to nothing about Eddie’s aunt, expect that she has four cats and is apparently much more tolerable than her sister, so Richie figures she’s his best and only shot.

He lugs the phonebook upstairs and punches in her number and waits, trying not to let his hopes climb too high as the phone starts ringing. It rings once, twice, a third time, a fourth, and he begins to steel himself for the chime of the answering machine.

“Hello?”

A voice, a real voice, not a recording. A small rush runs through him as if he just beat a hard level in a video game. Shit, he didn’t plan out what he was actually going to say. He didn’t expect to make it this far, but he has to think of something, and quick. This is his only lead; he can’t fuck it up.

“Hi, I’m a friend of Eddie’s. Is this his aunt Marian?”

“Yes, that’s me,” she replies in a cheery tone, easing Richie’s anxiety.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to call Eddie, but he never gave me his new number. My name’s Richie by the way.”

“Oh, Richie! Yes, of course. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“Well, just over Christmas dinners. But yes, I can give you their new number.”

“Thank you,” Richie breathes, feeling like he just scored a home run. He’s not sure how many more he’ll need to win the game, but this was the most significant hurdle. Anything beyond this should be easy.

“No problem, dear. Alright, do you have a pen?”

“Yeah, one second,” he says while reaching for one of the pens sitting on his desk, the band of muscle between his shoulder and neck spasming with the stretch. He grabs one and uncaps it with his teeth and spits it on the floor, then scribbles a few curls on his hand to make sure it’s working, and the ink comes out black and smooth.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Alright, their new number is 207-992-4200.”

“One more time, please,” he says even though he heard every number perfectly and the string of digits is now inscribed in a neat row on the back of his hand. But he’s still anxious that he might have misheard one along the way, and he can’t afford a single mistake if he wants to see this through.

“Sure, it’s 207-992-4200.”

Richie reads them along with her voice, and confirms beyond any doubt that they’re accurate.

He did it. He beat the level.

“Thank you so much.”

“Anytime. Anything else I can help you with?”

Richie’s eyes wander over to the cardboard box full of Eddie’s old possessions still sitting on the carpet a few feet away, and an idea hits him.

“Um, yeah, actually I was wondering if I could get their address too? I have some things that Eddie lent me that I want to send back.”

He holds his breath, hoping his tone didn’t come off as too insistent.

“Oh, sure. Their new address is 309 Terrace St. Bangor, Maine 04401.”

Richie scrawls the address right below their phone number. 309 Terrace. That’s really all the information he needs.

“Thank you. Yeah, I think that’s all I need.”

“Take care then. Maybe I’ll finally get the chance to meet you before you head off to college.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Sorry, I have to leave for work in a minute, but thanks again for everything.”

“No problem. Have a good day.”

“You too. Bye.”

He hangs up, elated, and confused as to how the kind person he just spoke too could have possibly grown up in the same household as the woman who seems to have a sick habit of degrading her own child for amusement.

He glances at his watch: 2:13. Shit, he slept in late. He obviously doesn’t have to leave for work for hours, but he still has some important shit to do. His initial plan was to call Eddie as soon as he got his number, but upon reconsideration, that’s probably not a good idea. If he calls he’ll probably just get his mom on the line, and she could feed him any number of lies. She might tell him that Eddie doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, or that he’s sick and can’t come to the phone, but Richie’s not going to fall for any of that shit. No, he needs to physically show up on their doorstep without warning and demand to see Eddie, and if there really is an innocuous explanation for all this, then he can just frame it as a surprise visit.

He calls Paul and tells him that he won’t be able to make it in tonight. He considers fabricating a stomach bug or something, but after what happened in the car last night, he can’t bring himself to lie. So instead he tells the truth, or most of it at least. He tells Paul that he’s worried about Eddie and needs to get to Bangor right away, and if Paul rightfully suspects that Eddie’s the one standing him up, then he doesn’t say anything, and just tells Richie not to worry about it.

He checks the bus schedule they keep in the drawer with the takeout menus. There are two buses running between Derry and Bangor daily, the 12:30pm route and another at 7:30pm. Obviously the first one’s long gone, but he still has plenty of time to catch the second.

In his head he tallies up a list of errands. First he goes to the bank and withdraws $300 from his savings, figuring he ought to be prepared for whatever worst case scenario he encounters. There’s still another $1,200 sitting in his account, and he has his checkbook on hand in case they really need to shell out some serious cash. They might have to hide out in a hotel or something where Richie can call his parents and ask them for a ride. He doesn’t want to make Eddie go through the bus station since that’s probably the first place his mom or the police will look.

After getting his cash he stops by Red Apple and stocks on up some snacks and a pack of gum that will hopefully tamper down this urge to put a cigarette between his lips. Shit, Eddie’s going to fucking kill him when he finds out how much he’s been smoking over the last few days. But he’ll stop now. If he keeps it up then he’ll never be allowed to kiss Eddie again.

From there he walks two blocks to the small bus station, which is basically just a cubicle with a radiator. He buys a ticket to Bangor with no issue, the girl behind the counter barely acknowledging him as she fans herself with a stack of papers.

Now there’s nothing left to do but wait. The bus will be boarding in four hours, so all he needs to do is go home and pack up a change of clothes in case he’s stuck there overnight. He doesn’t want to tell his parents what’s going on just yet. If this all turns out to be a false alarm, then he doesn’t want them freaking out over nothing. No, he’ll just say he’s going to spend the night at Eddie’s place. He’s taken buses to Bangor and even Portland for concerts several times before, so they know he can watch out for himself.

After getting back home he dumps the contents of his backpack onto the floor, and a messy pile of looseleaf papers, broken pencils, and gum wrappers fall at his feet. Once it’s emptied he stuffs in some clothes and the snacks he bought, then throws in a couple cassette tapes for good measure, even though Bangor’s barely an hour away.

Then he just sits there on the floor, wishing more than anything that he had his own car. If he’d bought one right after graduation like planned then he could already be standing on Eddie’s doorstep, but now all he can do is glance at his watch every few minutes and theorize what might be waiting for him.

Then he turns his attention to the box still sitting on the floor: a small capsule of nostalgia. All the things Eddie left behind. One by one he lifts each item out and places it on the carpet, cataloguing them like a small archive. Then he looks around his own room, taking in all the miscellaneous objects simply filling the space. Things that won’t come with him when he finally leaves for good. Things he’ll miss despite their uselessness, and probably find comfort in when he comes back to visit.

It hasn’t fully sunk in that he’ll have to leave this house soon. He’s excited about finally starting his real life, of course he is, but he can’t imagine any other town or city sinking so deep into his bones. Nearly all of his memories are tied up with this place. His parents aren’t from here; they only moved here a year before he was born, so they have no idea what it’s like to grow up with Derry as your only home. But he supposes that as long as Eddie’s with him, he can happy just about anywhere.

His parents are delighted when he comes down for dinner and informs them that he’s going to visit Eddie. They’ve been worried about him, it’s obvious. This is the first time they’ve seen him in more than passing since Eddie left, and his dad even hands him $20 with instructions to “do something fun” while he’s there.

Everything has worked out so perfectly. Almost too perfectly. And a few hours later the bus rolls up two minutes ahead of schedule, which Richie can’t recall ever happening in the dozen odd times he’s taken this route. But he’s not going to let his guard down just yet. Not until Eddie is safe and in his sight.

He pushes himself up from the metal bench and walks up the stairs, handing the driver his ticket and half expecting him to find some fault that will turn him back onto the street. But no, the driver just nods then pulls the door shut, leaving Richie to look around for a seat.

There are only four other people on the bus, all spread out are far as physically capable. Richie eyes the cabin and takes a seat near the middle, putting his backpack on the aisle seat and staring out the window as they begin their departure. As they begin moving he watches the familiar houses pass by as they gradually grow more disparate, then almost disappear entirely.

Normally he’d put on music for trips like this, but he can’t force himself into the mood. The sun is starting to set and the sky is fucking gorgeous. Washes of pink and orange mingling with purple clouds that reign over the open fields. Driving out of Derry allows makes Richie realize just how empty this state is. Just small pinpricks of towns surrounded by woods and farmland, full of splintering barns and rusted silos probably still full of uneaten corn. Fences guarding fat cows and leisure horses, but no people in sight. There’s a mixture of farmhouses and trailers, some dark and others lit, and Richie occasionally sees silhouettes passing through the windows, and he starts to wonder what it must be like to grow up in a place where evil doesn’t run through the sewers like its own bloodstream.

The sun has finally set over the hills, and the scenery is starting to fade into a low, grey light. He checks his watch, and sees that they’re scheduled to arrive in 26 minutes, and to his surprise, he’s sad that his trip is coming to an end so soon.

His head feels quiet. It’s refreshing, and freeing. He can’t remember feeling this relaxed in a very long time. It feels like his body was caught in a chronic muscle spasm that has finally released its grip. Normally long stretches of silence do nothing but aggravate his restlessness, but right now, all he wants to do is rest his forehead against the cool glass and taken in the world before it goes dark.

He feels safe here; a passenger with no control over what happens between point A and point B. And he’s actually sad when the first warehouses and chainstores begin appearing along the highway. He could’ve stayed in this seat for hours, each moment as peaceful as the next.

When he steps off the bus and looks around, he can’t quite remember what he came here for.

He’s been to the Bangor bus station before, so he knows his way around. But for some reason, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing right here in the present tense.

With no obvious answers around him, he takes a seat on one of the benches and pulls out a bag of chips, which he eats in silence as he tries to piece together what he came here for. He’s pretty sure it was nothing important. It just bothers him that he can’t remember.

_“Attention ladies and gentlemen, the 8:55 to New York will be departing in 30 minutes.”_

Richie perks up at that. Wasn’t he just talking about going down to New York yesterday? Yeah, he definitely mentioned it. He can’t remember why, but he must have had a reason. Yeah, that’s probably why he’s here. Bangor is just a changeover stop. That makes sense.

He rummages through his pockets in search of a ticket, but all he finds are gum wrappers, old receipts, and loose change. Then he muddles through his backpack and checks all the compartments, but no luck. Did he lose his ticket? Or maybe the ticket clerk screwed up. Guess there’s no point being mad about it, so he goes up to the desk and puts down $19 for the 8:55 to New York, then heads over to the meager snack booth and buys a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he was also disappointed to find missing from his pockets.

Then he stands outside the entrance and smokes alongside a few other guys who are sharing stories about where they’re from and where they’re headed, and Richie considers jumping in, but he’s not even sure what he’d contribute. He’s a talkative person, he knows that much. There’s always some bullshit building in his head, ready to spill out at the first opportunity, but right now, there’s nothing on his mind except for his own internal monologue. It’s offering commentary on his surroundings and absorbing the words of the men near him, but it seems to only be flowing linearly, drawing from nothing.

A few minutes later he hears the call for the New York bus, so he crushes out his cigarette and heads back inside.

He feels a jolt in his stomach when he steps onto the bus, like he’s about to take a test he didn’t study for. No, wait, it’s different than that. It’s not fear of the test, but rather regret that he didn’t study. But that’s got to just be the nerves, right? He’s only been down to New York City twice before, and both times were with his parents. He’ll have a lot to figure out once he gets there. First he’ll have to find someplace cheap to stay, although he knows he has $300 in his wallet and another $1,200 in the bank, so he doesn’t have to be too stingy. He can afford to do some fun shit. That’s what you’re supposed to do at eighteen, right? Leave home for a while, figure things out as you go along, see a couple corners of the world, and maybe come back a different person.

The bus driver pulls the doors shut and lifts the breaks, then they’re back winding through the streets before turning off onto the highway. It’s dark out now, and on the horizon a thunderstorm is moving closer. They’re beyond the suburbs by the time the first bolt of lightning hits: jagged and brilliant, it flashes against the clouds and disappears in an instant, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. It’s close, maybe just a couple miles away. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Another flashes in the distance, then another, the ghosts of previous bolts still intact behind his eyelids. He watches, refusing to blink, trying to memorize the exact shape of each streak, aware that he’ll never see the same one twice.

Nothing else matters. Not his home, the reason he came to Bangor, or why he’s going to New York. There’s electricity running through him, a chaotic energy aching to break loose. He stares at his own reflection in the tinted glass: the curve of his nose, the width of his eyes, the angle of his jaw; this is his face. The one he was born with, the one he’ll see everyday for the rest of his life. This is who he is. This night, this bus, the storm crawling from over the hills like some ancient deity, this is everything he is.

They cross bridges a thousand feet high and circle through rocky hills cleft into artificial valleys. He stares through clearings in the forest and listens to the rustle of the branches in the rain. The lightning falls in broken shapes, like those cracks running down the walls of his apartment.

That apartment. Where he’s alone.

No, that’s not right. There’s someone there with him.

Is it someone he knows? He can’t remember their face. His face?

His line of thought is fractured by another burst of lightning that looks like it belongs in the finale of a fireworks display.

The storm seems to be drawing closer. Or maybe they’re headed straight towards it.

The bus is dark. He doesn’t know where they are anymore.

Alone in the dark. Don’t let him know you’re looking.

He can’t recall ever seeing something so beautiful in his entire life.

Remember this. Remember who you are right now. Don’t lose this.

He’s eighteen, and this is all he has.


	4. Epilogue

The cigarettes are cheaper in Derry than any other place Richie’s lived over the last twenty-two years.

He definitively quit fifteen months ago after an x-ray showed a nodule sitting on his right lung. Thankfully it was benign, but the fear was enough to awaken some latent sense of self-preservation. It was never his intention to smoke so long. He recalls some naive promise that he’d quit before the age of twenty-five, as smoking wasn’t even cool once you were old. It was just sad.

But he’s earned a pass in this case. They all have.

So he stands on the back porch of the townhouse and stares down at the dark parking lot while savoring the familiar taste, wondering how he managed to smoke this brand for over twenty years without the smell ever evoking crystal sharp memories of this town and the people in it.

Suddenly, his phone starts vibrating in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, only to see that it’s an unknown number from a New York area code. He’s pretty sure he’s gotten a few spam calls from the same region, so he cuts it off and slips it back in his pocket, but he only gets ten seconds of peace before it starts vibrating once again.

“Motherfucker,” he curses, reaching into his pocket and pressing the power button without bothering to look.

Then he takes another drag and watches the smoke vanish into the air, his mind still empty from shock and adrenaline, the town strangely quiet.

Then he feels it vibrate a single time, and with a resigned sigh he pulls it back out and reads the message on his screen:

_Pick up your damn phone. -Eddie_

Richie’s entire body contracts, but before he has a chance to think, the phone begins ringing, and this time he accepts the call and raises it to his ear.

“Hey, what’s up?”

_“Not much, I’m just down by the bar. You?”_

“Out on the back porch.”

_“Cool.”_

Both of them fall silent, like they’re shuffling their feet at an awkward icebreaker. Richie tries to think of something to say, but he’s distracted by the sight of his cigarette smoldering away; the only one he’ll allow himself for the next year.

“That the full report?” Richie asks.

_“Yeah, sorry, I just wanted to call you. You know, like I said I would.”_

At those words, Richie can’t help but sink to his knees.

“You remember?” he whispers.

_“Yeah.”_

Richie closes his eyes, focusing on the shifting patches of light behind his eyelids, flooding him with memories of the storm that night. He wants to cry. He’s sure he will at some point soon, but in the moment, the loss is simply too great to comprehend.

 _“It would’ve been a really nice summer,”_ Eddie says, and those words feel like sunlight on Richie’s skin.

“Yeah, it would’ve.”

When tragedies occur, people often find ways to lay the blame on themselves, no matter how nonsensical the connection. Richie knows it’s not his fault for getting on that bus to New York, but still, he can’t help but speculate that if he’d only tried harder, if he’d only loved Eddie as much as he believed, then surely he would have remember. But even if he manages to accept the fact that he deserves no blame, that won’t make the grief any less earth-shattering.

What silver lining can he possibly extrapolate from this? Twenty-two years, a completely different life, a real home, how can Richie ever accept such a loss? How could anyone?

He can faintly hear Eddie breathing, and it reminds him of their first and only kiss. When he held Eddie’s face and felt the air from his nose softly hitting his cheek, and the simple warmth made him so goddamn happy. Fuck, in hindsight, that night may have been the happiest experience of his life. It was the last time he ever felt that childish certainty that everything would unfold perfectly.

There’s no lesson to be gained from this. There’s no compensation. All he can do is extinguish his cigarette on the lacquered wood beneath his knees and let the heavy silence stretch on.

…

 _“Hey, you feel like hanging out sometime?”_ Eddie whispers.

…

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”


End file.
